


Fleeting Lover

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Ageing, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Geralt always knew he aged slower than humans. He used to think nothing of it; just another 'perk' of his mutations. Except now Jaskier is growing older. And Geralt is not.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 190





	Fleeting Lover

**Author's Note:**

> I know there's a quote in the books from Djikstra that Jaskier is 40 in the book timeline, but I'm nudging him down to 32. 25 when he meets Geralt, 32 when they become a couple, in his 50s when the story starts.
> 
> More comprehensive warnings can be found in the end notes. Warning: These do contain spoilers.
> 
> Edit 2/02/2020: Jumping in here to say I am now aware that my timeline was off. I wrote the above timeline headcanon waaaay before Jaskier's true age was revealed. So yeah, my timeline for show canon is off but it's being kept that way for the sake of this story. Setbacks of writing a story as an AO3 draft and forgetting to check your notes before you post, I guess.

Geralt starts to notice it six months after Jaskier’s fifty-seventh birthday. They’re lying in bed, breathless, sweaty and satiated, when Jaskier laughs heartily at something Geralt says and his crow’s feet grow more pronounced. When did that get there? As Geralt stares, his eyes get drawn up to a shot of silver hair at the Jaskier’s left temple. How long has he had that? It’s as if he aged overnight.

An unpleasant sensation stirs inside Geralt's guts. He traces the crow's feet with the tip of his finger, silencing Jaskier's laughter, all the way up until he touches that shot of silver hair. 

"What is it, Geralt?" Jaskier asks, confused. "Is everything okay? Geralt?" 

"Hmm?" Geralt startles out of his reverie, pulls his hand back. "What?" 

A soft smile tugs at Jaskier's lips. "Is there something on my face?"

"Oh, no. Um. Just noticed you're getting wrinkles, that's all."

Jaskier groans melodramatically and collapses against the mattress. "Don't remind me! And the hair, too! Noticed it the other week. Thought to myself, 'Jaskier, you've only got a few more good years left with your beauty now, you're on borrowed time, enjoy yourself while it lasts.' It almost made me cry! I'm _old_." 

There it is, that unpleasant sensation again. "You're hardly that old, stop being dramatic."

"I suppose fifty-seven is actually quite young in witcher years. What are you? A hundred-and-twenty?"

A few years off the mark but not a bad guess. "Almost."

"Ugh, enough about age." Jaskier shoots up and pins Geralt to the mattress, sitting astride him. "We've got two hours before the innkeeper comes banging on the door for his money. I refuse to spend those two hours talking about how old we are when there are much," he leans in, breath ghosting over Geralt's lips causing arousal to crackle through him like electricity, "much better things we could do with our time. What say you, witcher?"

Geralt crushes their lips together. If they only have two more hours, he intends on making every second of it count. And when they leave under the watchful (and disgusted) glare of the innkeeper (who clutched at the coin pouch Geralt had tossed him like a maiden would clutch her pearls as he sniffed the sex-stained air) he was supremely satisfied when Jaskier hobbled on bowed legs out, singing his praises at the staff in a hoarse voice.

* * *

Eight months pass in which Geralt's only concerns are hunting monsters, collecting money, and loving Jaskier with everything he has even if some of his new ballads make Geralt want to throw him in a river. He forgets his previous concerns are all but forgotten.

And then they have an altercation at an inn. 

"You didn't save my daughter," Conrad spits, shoving back from the table. His red-rimmed eyes are brimming with hatred and grief. "I paid you, witcher, to save my daughter! And you come back to tell me that she's dead? You have some gall! The only thing you deserve is a swift boot up the arse."

"No, you paid me to find your daughter. I found her." Geralt stands slowly, aware of the eyes of at least six drunken men on him. If he doesn't defuse the situation now there'll be a nasty brawl on their hands. He wishes there was a way to tell Jaskier to go up to their room where it is safe. "She had been long dead by the time I got there. Nothing could be done, but I avenged her by killing the leshen. Now give me what I am owed so that I can be on my way."

"You'll get nothing from me, mutant. Leave!"

Jaskier stands too. "Hey, come now, that's a bit uncalled for -"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Conrad lashes out, shoving Jaskier hard enough to knock him off his feet. Chairs scrape against the floor behind them. "Count yourself lucky I don't -"

What they should count themselves lucky for, Geralt never finds out. At Jaskier's yelp of pain, he sees red, punching Conrad square in the nose and feels it break under his knuckles in a spray of blood. It's all the drunken men need.

"Witcher!" one of them snarls, punching Geralt in the back of the head. 

There's not much that Geralt remembers about that initial fight. He recalls choosing not to unsheathe his sword - a decision he bitterly regrets - and instead, incapacitate them with fists. Pain shoots across his knuckles as his skin splits and spills blood down his arm. Tables overturn. Women scream in terror. He vaguely remembers the innkeeper rushing out the door to fetch the guards. 

He never sees one of the men, a pimply red-faced youth of twenty, pull out his sword. 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen please!" Jaskier shouts, on his feet now. "This is no place to - _AUGH_!"

Geralt whips around. His heart drops into his stomach in horror. 

Jaskier's writhing on the ground in a growing pool of his own blood, a sword through his thigh. It's gone clean through. His attacker wrenches the sword out in a spray of blood and laughs. 

Geralt sees red, then paints the whole tavern in it. Carries Jaskier in his arms to the healer, then threatens the alderman who comes barging into throw them out for murdering all those people. The alderman backs down immediately and leaves, muttering, "They were good for nothing useless sods anyway..."

There's so much blood. Jaskier cries in agony until he's sedated. Geralt wishes he could resurrect those men to kill them again for what they have done. Wishes he could punish himself for allowing it to happen.

_Never should've taken my eyes off him. Should've been there. This is all my damn fault._

"I don't know how my potions will help him," says the healer. "This is a very serious wound."

"Do what you can," Geralt begs her. 

She does. It isn't enough. 

* * *

Jaskier is never the same after that. 

Long after the stab wound heals, his leg is stiff and uncooperative. Hills and staircases that would never have bothered him before get the best of him now, leaving him choking and gasping for breath at the top for minutes. But each and every time he says the same thing;

"I'm fine, Geralt! Nothing to worry about. Bit out of shape, that's all."

But when Jaskier collapses one day, sixty-two years old, heaving for breath like the world is suddenly running on short supply, they have to face the fact that their days of monster hunting and travelling together across the Continent are over - unless the hunt is close, or the routes are easy, or Geralt lets Jaskier ride on Roach the entire time. 

Geralt has never been afraid of the passage of time until now.

* * *

One day, many years after the stabbing attack, they buy a house together in Dol Blathanna. 

"It's so nice that you're taking care of your father," says the woman selling the house to them. She beams, unaware of the knife she has driven between Geralt's ribs. She's not much younger than Jaskier but has the eyesight of someone twenty years her senior, unable to see anything clearly unless they were a foot in front of her. Doesn't know that she's talking to a witcher because she can't see his hair or his eyes properly. Told him he had "nice hazel eyes like her son" in fact. "You don't see a lot of that nowadays."

 _He's not my father, he's my husband,_ Geralt wants to say, though they have never officially gotten married. He's grateful that Jaskier has gone out to inspect the little backyard and hasn't heard her. The cane Jaskier uses to walk, the frail and unsteady way he walks through life now, would have been the final brutal blow to his ego he would never have recovered from. 

"Uh yes, thank you," he mumbles awkwardly, accepting the keys. 

When she leaves he goes and sits out the back and listens to Jaskier prattle on about everything they could do with a backyard like this. Puts a smile on his face so Jaskier won't notice anything wrong. Guilt stirs anew at the sight of his husband, the accumulation of injuries Geralt could never prevent. 

"I love it here," says Jaskier, beaming. "This place is incredible!"

"Yes, it is."

Jaskier's smile turns impish as he approaches, sliding a hand up Geralt's chest to grab him by the collar and tug him into a kiss. "What room should we christen first, my love?"

Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong.

* * *

They build themselves a little garden in the backyard. Dandelions, roses, carnations, daisies - they learn to grow and care for them, even through the winter. And suddenly it becomes Their Space.

Geralt trains amongst the flowerbeds as Jaskier curls up with his lute or his books, spending time together. One day Geralt chops down a tree and builds them a bench that they can share, lying side by side as they stargaze at night. 

"I love you," says Jaskier, tilting Geralt's chin up to press a chaste kiss to his lips. "I love you so much."

"And I love you."

They make love on that bench. Several times. 

Geralt never fails to press his love into every inch of Jaskier's skin. 

* * *

"How is Jaskier?" asks Ciri. "Getting any better?"

For years Geralt and Ciri have held to their tradition of meeting up every few months to catch up. It just so happened that Ciri was passing through Dol Blathanna. When Geralt received her letter, he had eagerly written her back and scheduled to meet her in a nearby inn. For days he's dealt with a rising tension inside him that left him tired and irritable with no appropriate outlet. Jaskier's leg hurts him so badly he cries when he thinks Geralt can't hear him. And there's shit all that Geralt can do to help. 

"No. I think he's getting worse."

Her brows furrow. "How do you mean?"

He tells her everything, grateful that she doesn't do anything more than sit there quietly. 

"Have you thought about going to a sorceress for magical aid?" she asks, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes are downcast. "Yennefer?"

"Wouldn't know where to start looking for her," Geralt admits. He and Yennefer see each other perhaps once a year if they're lucky. They had ended their relationship amicably as friends but their wildly different livelihoods and ambitions keeps them continents apart. "And I wouldn't trust any other sorceresses."

"Not even Triss?"

"No." 

When no explanation is forthcoming, Ciri sits back with a sigh. "What about trying witcher concoctions?"

Geralt's eyes flash. "Don't be stupid, Ciri. You know full well what happens to humans when they drink witcher potions. They're _poison_."

"Yeah, you're right, that was a dumb thing to say. Sorry, Geralt." She smiles sheepishly. "Listen, I'll see what I can do to find Yennefer for you. How long are you gonna be in Dol Blathanna?"

"Another month or so." Geralt shrugs. "Depends on how long our money holds."

"I still think you should try and find Yennefer," says Ciri. "If you can't trust anyone else, you can at least trust her. She and Jaskier might not get along so great, but she would do anything for the two of you. You know that."

"I'll keep an eye out for her," Geralt promises. But with Jaskier the way that he is, he's not going to go out of his way to leave Jaskier to find Yennefer. 

"So will I." Ciri understands.

* * *

They don't find Yennefer.

They don't find any other mage either. As if knowing Geralt is getting desperate enough to ask them for their help, they go to ground. 

Geralt hates them more than ever. 

Jaskier's body fails him more and more as he ages. The domino effect of a stab wound in a tavern is mind-boggling. 

Humans age like _this_? 

* * *

It all happens so fast it leaves Geralt dizzy and confused. 

One minute Jaskier is here, the next he isn't. 

Went to sleep one night and Geralt hears his final heartbeat. His last breath. 

No amount of begging, no amount of chest compressions, brings Jaskier back. 

Jaskier dies at the age of seventy-five.

Leaving Geralt alone.

* * *

Geralt has never been one to let people close to him. Only a handful have ever been able to boast about companionship with Geralt of Rivia, Famed White Wolf.

After the burial, Geralt lets nobody close again.

The air sings with Jaskier's voice, trailing after him to the point where he searches desperately for the wraith that must be following him, desperate to chase Jaskier back to the afterlife where he belongs now. _Don't get stuck here with me,_ he begs. _Don't do that to yourself, Jask._

_Don't stick around for someone like me._

Sits in the backyard, hands in his lap, watching the garden.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

* * *

Ciri does her best to be there for Geralt but not even she can be there all of the time, no matter how hard she tries.

She gives up a life on the road to stay with Geralt. Makes sure he eats, sleeps, doesn't stay out in the backyard too long watching the flowers he and Jaskier planted together once upon a time dance in the breeze. Tries not to show how worried she is for him. Fails. He can see it.

He just doesn't care.

The world is an empty and cruel place; the colour sucked out of it. Lives entirely in the shadows of memory, reliving a life he never thought he'd have, cruelly reminded again and again when he wakes up each morning ( _stop it, stop it, I can't anymore_ ) that he'll never have it again.

"Why don't we train, yeah?" Ciri asks one day, hopeful. "Don't want to get rusty."

He hasn't trained since Jaskier died. The muscle built up from decades of monster hunting slides off him like water. He's scary thin and pale. 

When he stands up, her eyes widen in surprise. Goes to fetch her sword and comes out into the backyard to find Geralt sitting on the bench that he built for himself and Jaskier, gazing up at the sky. 

She quickly stopped asking him to train and focuses on getting him to eat more.

She can't.

* * *

Six months pass achingly slow until Geralt cannot take the pain anymore.

Early one morning he gets up and shuffles through the little town to the noticeboard. Hasn't taken a contract in ages but he still checks to see what people have posted.

**WITCHER WANTED: DROWNERS IN SWAMPS. 2000 OREN REWARD.**

Geralt returns home and rests his swords on Jaskier's side of the bed. In the spare bedroom, Ciri snores lightly, unaware. Offers her a little mental apology. She won't understand. Perhaps she'll even hate him. But that's okay; he hates himself, too. 

_I can't take this anymore. I can't do this anymore. There's nothing left in this world to keep me here._

Pauses by the door and reconsiders. Takes his silver sword. Ciri can have his steel sword. Or she can throw it away. It's up to her. 

He walks out into the swamps - a trip that takes him until mid-afternoon. Hears the drowners before he sees them. Splashes the water to grab their attention, then kneels. And waits. 

They know the scent of a witcher and approach cautiously. But they do approach. 

A witcher never dies peacefully. A witcher never dies without a fight. 

He kills two out of seven drowners. Hits a third too hard and bends the silver sword. Another hit, and it snaps. Drives the broken edge into a drowner's eye, but by now they have swarmed him. Biting, scratching, tearing at his skin and his clothes until the water turns red from his blood. His body is alight with pain. He screams his agony to the heavens. 

They pull him toward the water and he goes, dropping the broken sword. 

Under the murky depths he dies slowly, agonisingly. But he watches the surface fall further and further from reach, his eyes drifting closed, and feels a smile light upon his face as he feels the cold arms of death close around him. 

_Hold on, Jaskier. I'm coming._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna. I'm just gonna leave this here and run. 
> 
> Warnings include:
> 
> \- Jaskier sustains a serious injury stab wound to his leg and is unable to fully recover. His good luck with ageing runs out as his body is no longer able to keep up as the years go by.
> 
> \- Jaskier dies at the age of 75.
> 
> -Geralt falls into a deep depression after Jaskier's death. He disappears and commits suicide via drowner. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed the story!


End file.
